


I Wear Black

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Drama, Friendship, Hogwarts Era, The Quidditch Pitch: From Diagon Alley to Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-26
Updated: 2008-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Severus Snape is a flawed hero. What were his thoughts the first time he laid eyes on his nemesis' son? How did those thoughts change at the end of his life?





	I Wear Black

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
> **Author's notes:**
> 
> I want to thank my 11th grade English teacher for this fanfic. He asked me to try to write 'outside my comfort zone' and this is what happened. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did when writing it! 

There was a time when I didn’t wear black everyday. In fact, there was a time I wore black only because it was part of my school uniform. However, things are different now, and I haven’t worn anything but black for the last ten years. Nine years and ten months to be exact. I threw away anything colorful on November 1st, 1981. I wear black because I am mourning; I have been all this time. Colors remind me too much of _her_ , anyways.

Today is just another day. A day of secret pain and suffering. Dumbledore told me today will be ‘special,’ but I don’t see how. I know he believes that there is nothing better in the world than the education of young witches and wizards, but I disagree. I know what the best thing in the world is, but I’ll never see it again.

I sit down at my customary spot at the staff table. There is no one here yet but me, but I prefer it this way. A couple of teachers walk through the door a few minutes later discussing lesson plans. I don’t join in. I know exactly what I will say to each class tomorrow; I’ve said the same thing for 11 years.

The table slowly fills with adults over the next 10 minutes. Some dolt with a turban sits next to me. He is some awkward youth with a bad stutter. I promptly ignore him and conjure myself a glass of water. I look down the staff table and realize this idiot must be the new DADA teacher. Dumbledore must really be desperate to hire someone this twitchy.

Speak of the devil, Dumbledore sweeps into the hall with an obnoxious grin on his face. He is obviously more excited than the normal on the first day of term. I ask what is making him so happy. All I get is a wink and the words “you’ll see” in response.

The massive doors at the end of the room open once more to admit a horde of second through seventh years inside. They are laughing and exchanging news from the summer with each other. I remember when I was that happy. It only happened on those rare occasions when _she_ was with me, but I cherish them all the same. I couldn’t cast a Patronus unless I did.

Hagrid moves his gigantic form through the door at the end of the table. McGonagall realizes this as he sits down and then she rushes off. The first years must have arrived.

True to my prediction, a line of small children files through the Great Hall doors. They are nervously whispering to each other and staring in amazement around themselves. A couple of the older students are waving at the closely huddled together eleven year olds. A few of them recognize their older brothers and sisters and give feeble smiles back.

McGonagall unravels a long scroll. Some frightened little girl named Hannah Abbott is sorted into Hufflepuff, and I lose interest. I look up occasionally, just to glimpse at new Slytherin faces. I instantly know who the platinum-blonde kid is as the sorting hat calls ‘Slytherin.’ He must be Lucius Malfoy’s son. I believe his name is Draco. My mind fades back out of focus. I glimpse up a couple more times, the last being for some little girl named Pansy. I have just enough time to wonder how much longer until this whole situation is over before I hear the name I have hated since I was eleven.

I draw out my wand instinctively, ready to cast a hex as soon as I spot him. I look wildly around until I see the form of James Potter, my nemesis, walking timidly toward the sorting hat. Turban-head next to me pokes me in the back and I realize that James Potter could not possible be here. The boy in front of me is merely eleven, and James Potter would be my age if he were alive. However, I know James is dead; I stepped over his dead body when I ran into his cottage trying to find out if my one and only love was still alive.

I hastily store my wand away, and rack my brains. The only logical conclusion is that this little kid is the famed Harry Potter. His hair looks exactly as James’ did; it is the only part of him I can currently asses.

The sorting hat is taking an awful long time to sort him. Half of me wants him to be in Slytherin. That part of me reasons that if I swore to protect him, it would be easier if I had full control over everything he does. The other part of me is logically concluding he will be a Gryffindor, like his bloody father. I have to remind myself that his mother was in Gryffindor, too. I suppose it’s fitting, because her last act was that of tremendous bravery. A picture of her face swims before me, and I am caught up in a daydream.

I miss the hat’s exclamation, but I am quickly informed. Some buffoon, excuse me, two redheaded buffoons are now shouting across the Hall, “We got Potter!” I groan internally and return to my previous state of daydreaming. It is filled with a wonderful girl with deep red hair and the kindest personality until the feast starts.

The annoying son-of-a-bludger next to me is now talking to me as if I care. His name is Quirell. I only half listen as he begins to tell me in that stupid stammering voice about his trip to Albania over the summer. I glance around the room, as see the untidy shock of black hair that is all too familiar to me.

The boy turns around and looks straight at me. Dumbledore was right; he has precisely the love-of-my-life’s eyes. They are those almond-shaped emerald-green pools I remember. I hastily look away from him. I pretend to listen to Quirell as my mind spins. I know now just how hard the next few years are going to be. I have an internal battle that is already raging inside of me.

James or Lily, who am I going to treat him as?

_ Seven Years Later _

I am pleading with the most evil wizard ever known. I know it is pointless, but I have to try. I haven’t told the boy my secret, yet. Dumbledore told me I have to tell him, yet I have failed. My last task in the name of Lily, and I have failed.

I wait for the Dark Lord to point the wand in his hand at me and say the fatal words, but to my surprise he doesn’t, he sets the snake on me instead. It sinks those horrible fangs into me repeatedly. All I feel is pain, pain at the physical wounds, and pain for the people I have failed. The snake stops attacking, and I am dying. I know I am. No one can save me now, not even Dumbledore, supposing he was around still.

I open my eyes carefully, and to my surprise, three people are beside me. The closest one has untidy black hair. My feeble heart jumps in elation, maybe I haven’t failed, yet. I don’t know what I say as I let the memories of my secret leave me. The secret I have guarded for my entire life. I give him the secret, because without it, he may not trust me. He has to trust me, because he must carryout the mission I give him. He must, if anything I have done in the last 17 years is to mean anything.

It all leaves, the pain of what I did to her, of what I did to myself. It is gone, someone else’s problem now. I keep some thoughts to myself though. The times that she and I had walking around the grounds, or studying in the library, and those potion classes that we had together. I go through them quickly as I die.

As quickly as the memories started, they stop. I know I have only a second or so longer to live. I manage one final request.

“Look at me.” It is all I can say. I want to die seeing those kind eyes that were the first to accept me.   I need to see those eyes that bore through my exterior and into my soul and the eyes that held a poor boy up through the most difficult times of his life. He looked at me, and I stared back.

That is where I died, on the cold floorboards of some tiny shack. I was still wearing black, as I have for her. I died, looking into the eyes that she passed to her son, looking into the eyes of the only person I have ever loved.

 


End file.
